


Compromise

by orphan_account



Category: Wanted (2008), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M, Soft Core Twincest, The Loom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-22
Updated: 2012-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-29 22:51:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The Loom</i> wants Max Eisenhardt. Wesley intends to deliver.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Compromise

The first time Erik bypassed a pay phone (or ‘telephone booth’ as these Americans seemed so fond of calling them) that began to shrill seemingly of it’s own volition, he ignored it.

Three blocks later and two more encounters with ringing pay phones that cut off as soon as he glided passed them; he thinks perhaps there is a chance someone is trying to gain his attention. He eyes his surroundings suspiciously, the street containing only the scarcest of stragglers making their way home from work, the setting sun and the less than favorable reputation of this part of Miami CIty urging people indoors faster.

The hotel in which Erik has been staying is only down the street, a cheap, dingy little thing but perfect for his purposes. He can’t afford any distractions, not tonight, but the phone is still blasting that high, irritating sound that puts Erik’s teeth on edge and fuck if his curiosity isn’t piqued.

Giving a quick sneer at the time displayed on his wrist watch (dammit, he only had two more hours to prepare and get to the docks), he made one last sweep of the area and when nothing seemed to register as a threat, he hurried into the booth and let his ability slam the door behind him by it’s metal hinges.

Caged in by four glass panels, the shrill was ten times worse, loud and insistent, it grated on Erik’s already fraying temper even as he ripped the phone off it’s base and snarled an impatient ‘What do you want’ into the mouth piece - a demand rather than a question.

 _“Where the hell did you learn your manners, mate?”_ Young. Male. American. Erik wanted to punch him already. _“That is no way to answer a phone.”_

Erik tightened his grip around the handle and counted down from three to calm his nerves. Funnily enough, it didn’t work.

“Stop fooling around. Who are you, and once again, what the fuck do you want.” What sounded like a sigh came across amongst the static and despite the casualness of the noise, as if by their own accord Erik’s hackles began to rise. He looked out to the street again, paranoia rearing it’s head - but there was still nothing he could see that warranted caution.

 _“The name’s Wesley. Loved ones call me Wes,”_ the voice comes again, distinctly amused and sarcastic at the same time. _“And as to what I want,”_ he heard the man shift slightly, a soft ‘click’ barely discernible in the background. _“I guess I just wanted to let you know that, well, I -am- sorry about all this.”_

“About wh-“

It’s only the countless years of self taught instinct that manages to save him. Teaching his abilities to react without conscious thought had been a strenuous task, arduous in every sense of the word but wholly necessary. But certainly not a labor to regret, especially not currently where there is the weirdest fucking bullet Erik has ever seen hovering the barest of inches from his forehead, it’s trajectory halted in what could only be alarmingly called ‘in the nick of time’.

Adrenaline flushes through his system in a surge of heat the moment panic eventually catches up with his slacking mind, realization slamming into him like a freight train as he takes note of the spider web cracks surrounding a near perfect hole in the glass window to his right, just above eye level.

Someone had just tried to assassinate him. Someone had almost justsucceeded in assassinating him.

10 feet to his left, a metal bench on the sidewalk crumples into itself.

A long appreciative whistle breaks him out of his stupor and the bullet, still suspended in the air, shudders for a moment before falling to the ground.

 _“Well fuck me. Can’t say I was expecting that,”_ Wesley laughed from the speakers, a deep, rough sound that was tinged only slightly with disbelief.

Son of a bitch. That cocky, annoying son of a bitch. Erik could feel the rage mounting slowly, a build up of crashing waves that got larger and larger, overrunning his thoughts, his conscious until he only so red, felt it in the way metal keened and sung for him, always more willing to obey when fury took hold, prepared to destroy and eviscerate in less time it took for a man’s heart to beat.

An inch.

All his planning, years upon years of scouring the globe for so much as a bread crumb of intel, country to country, always searching, never resting. Everything up until now, his blood, his sweat, even his morality - all of it due for it’s climatic retribution tonight.

An inch (if that) and he could have lost it all. HIs revenge, his purpose; gone in the split second of a man’s trigger finger. And this said man, this ‘Wesley’, the asshole who had been so close to yanking his dream right out from under him in a most brutally efficient manner; was _laughing_.

When he was done with Schmidt, he was going to enjoy breaking this fool down for crossing him.

_“Sooooo, what are you baby cakes? A telekinetic or something? Shit, guess that explained the door…”_

Shit. This guy could see him. How could this guy see him? He’d already swept the area for the unique curve of a gun, they were large, clunky things, easy to recognize and even easier to manipulate. There was nothing for two blocks that could have fired that bullet, and the high rises of the city in the wrong direction to have pierced the glass from the left and nothing so tall in the immediate vicinity to harbor a sniper, at least not one to create that angle.

It was fucking baffling. Erik was no mathematician, but even he knew that when you trace back the angle a projectile entered, followed it back along it’s path to find it’s origin and come up with nothing but open air - something didn’t add up.

Erik reached out again, clenching his fists as he attempted to extend his reach further than applicable, drawing out a frustrated yell when he could only pick up traces of change, hardware and other mundane, day to day objects; the vibration of a recently fired gun escaping his grasping attention.

The man had to be close. He had to be.

But where?

_“Stop looking so frantic sweet cheeks, I’m not even in the same zip code so calm your tits, okay?”_

Erik damn well near decimated the booth right there and then at the chastising tone. He only resisted for the sake of information. Suddenly a thought struck him, dousing his temper as efficiently as water on fire and withheld the urge to grimace.

“Why are you doing this? Did Schmidt send you? Does he know I’m here?” If Schmidt already knew he was here in Miami… then his plans were all but destroyed. He would have moved on by now, seeking safety somewhere else or at least increased his security, devised a way to protect himself against Erik’s unique form of attack.

 _“Who?”_ Wesley questioned, remarkably genuine in his confusion. Erik felt the tension in his shoulders ease up just a fraction. then made a decisively uncaring snort. _“Actually, don’t worry. Doesn’t matter.”_

“Then _who_ you gormless worm? Why are you trying to kill me?” he bit viciously into the phone, patience having dissipated along while ago. He was surprised when he didn’t receive an immediate taunting response; a pregnant pause containing notions he couldn’t fathom filling the silence in it’s stead.

When Wesley next spoke, it was different. Gone was the arrogant, playful tone of a young man, and in it’s place… something older. Something wiser.

 _“It’s nothing personal, Max,”_ Wesley sighed, _“your name came up, is all.”_

_“Kill you later, yeah?”_

And then the line went dead, leaving Erik listening to a dial tone, late, and no more enlightened then he was when he first picked up the phone. Other than the fact that someone was trying to kill him (and what was new about that, really?) and that he somehow knew Erik’s birth name.

Erik had a feeling his life was about to get more complicated.

\----

Wesley pulled back from Cross’ custom made sniper and stretched out his stiff limbs before falling back his chair. He rolled his head to the side and watched the screen as he worked some blood flow back into his legs.

Eisenhardt was still in the box, turning Wesley’s bullet over between his thumb and forefinger, raised to the dwindling light of the day.

He was an interesting one, to say the least; Handsome too he noted as the other finally exited, looking around subtly at the street (still not picking up on the CCTV unit Wesley had installed this morning on the over hang of a news agency. But then again, unlike the British, the United States had failed to take them on.) before he began his trek ‘home’, the long gait of his limbs eating up distance quickly.

Sharp cheekbones, an even sharper jaw line, and fit as fuck; Why did he always have to assassinate the good looking ones? Better yet - Why were all the good looking ones apparently contributing to making the world suck?

Shaking his head, he felt a familiar warmth spread itself at the base of his skull, a soft presence wriggling it’s way back into Wesley’s mind, slotting itself back into the space it had carved for itself 26 years ago seamlessly.

Lighting up excitedly, Wesley quickly switched off the screen and made his way to the door, banging it open with little grace before the man on the other side had time to knock.

“Hello Charlie.”

The blooming smile that greeted him incurred his own and before his twin could protest he’s swept his ‘other’ up into a hug, grinning wildly when Charles stopped flailing and just gave into it.

_::I was shielding myself from you, how did you know?::_

Pulling back, but not far enough for his older twin to escape his arms, he dropped a kiss on his nose and replied, “I always know when you’re close, dipstick. Familial hazard.”

He didn’t quite avoid the punch to the shoulder, though it was relatively weak regardless, made weaker by the delightful huff of laughter that escaped Charles’ lips. There weren’t many dissimilarities between Charles and himself, the same curling brown hair (though Charles preferred to wear his longer), the same twinkling blue eyes, the vivid red of their mouths. The only noticeable differences besides their taste in fashion (‘Elbow patches, really Charlie?’ ‘Leather pants, really Wesley?’ ‘Shut up.’) were created by their lifestyles; Wesley hard and defined due to constant training, and Charles, though not unfit, was a bit softer around the edges due to an invested interest in academia.

Holding him in his arms Wesley could admit that he liked the roundness of Charles’ form; when they had been younger, still trying to figure out the kinks in their mutations, plagued as he was by constant headaches and migraines due to the constant stream of thoughts surrounding him, Charles ate the bare minimum, just enough to get him by, anything more making him sick. He’d looked like a walking corpse, a thin, gangly body that barely held itself up.

It had been hard, sometimes Charles would be confined to bed for days on end, Wesley curled around him as he cried into his pillow because he hadn’t learnt to filter, had not yet known how to shield.

The extra flesh on his bones made Wesley happy, it was indicative of how healthy he was, that he was safe and powerful.

_::You dwell entirely too much, brother::_

With a rueful grin, he pinched his brother’s side and gave it a good wiggle, ducked the ensuing swipe at his head and ignoring his twin’s indignant yelp, pulled them further into the apartment by the lapels of Charles’ tweed jacket.

“And _you_ should be in England somewhere on your way to another doctorate, you fucking overachiever,” He replied, grasping on to his brother’s hand and dragging him towards the kitchen to pop on the kettle for the tea Charles will no doubt beg for.

“So as much as I love the idea of you crossing an ocean just to visit little ol’ me, the beloved brother you forgot to call last week you twat; what are you doing in Miami?” he tossed over his shoulder, puttering about in the cupboards for some sugar he’s not entirely sure he’s bought.

“Well, would you believe me if I told you I was in town on behalf of the CIA?”

**Author's Note:**

> Not sure if I'll continue this yet, but making it a series just in case I get inspired to add anything further. Fic based on a gif set floating around tumblr.


End file.
